


When Fortune Leads

by LadyRoxie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: But mostly Mac and Mr. B, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Role Reversal, everyone ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: Come after me, he'd said, standing in a deserted road, the engine of the cab purring behind them.





	When Fortune Leads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> So I'm fairly sure I've pushed the boundaries of this month's Trope Challenge to their absolute limits (not to mention the deadline) but holy mother of everything, was this one hard. This is what I ended up with, and I apologize ahead of time for the angsty fluffiness of it. 
> 
> It's utterly for Sassasam. Belated Happiest, dear. xoxo

_Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament._  
_Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident._  
_This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange_  
_That even our loves should with our fortunes change._  
_For ’tis a question left us yet to prove,_  
_Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love._  
Player King, Hamlet

 

 _Come after me_ , he said, standing in a deserted road, the engine of a cab purring behind them. 

24 hours before, there would have been no decision to make, even if there should have been. Phryne Fisher did not run after anyone, especially a man; even him. 

*****

The late autumn sun had been setting, casting glorious orange streaks across the dining room table as she passed through with a vase of flowers. Apricot-hued roses, the late Mrs. Butler's favourite apparently, and likely this season's last from the bush that Mr. Butler tended with careful devotion. Phryne set the vase on the mantel in the parlour, imagining Jack's face as he admired them. A smile ghosted over her lips; she knew how he loved roses.

“Will you be going out this evening, Miss?” Mr. Butler's face appeared in the doorway, and she saw his eyes warm as he saw the flowers.

“No, Mr. B., a quiet night in, I think. I have a novel I've been hoping to get to.” It had been a busy week, with two cases of her own (though even she struggled to call a lost Persian cat a 'case'), and several nights out. She had awoken that morning with a pleasant feeling of expectancy, and was glad it was already dusk.

“Very good, Miss. Miss Williams' has just left with Constable Collins for the evening. Should you need a some refreshment during your reading, I've taken the liberty of decanting the 25 year old Islay.”

Phryne looked over to the liquor cart, and noticed a full decanter of whiskey and two polished crystal tumblers. She doubted Mr. Butler missed her quirked smile. 

*****

There was no formal agreement, no schedule or plan, but somehow, a rhythm had developed between them that was intuited by both. The end of a case, or the middle of a case, or after three or so days with no case at all, and somehow he would appear, and she would receive him. She wondered once if he'd ever called when she was out; he hadn't. He wondered occasionally if he was unwelcome; he never was.

And so it was no surprise to either of them that it was Phryne and not her butler who opened the door moments after Jack's distinctive knock that evening. The air was crisp with the promise of frost, and the streetlamps behind him cast pools of light on the quiet street, but she noticed immediately that something was off. 

“Jack!” The radiance of her smile made him forget, for a sweet, blind moment, why he was there. “Come in.”

She relieved him of his hat, perhaps lingering a second longer than might have been necessary when she slipped the overcoat from his arms. Something in the centre of her chest softened as she placed the coat, warm from his body, to its hook. Whiskey and conversation would pull whatever was ailing him out, and she was deeply glad he'd come in spite of it.

They settled by the fire, each cradling a generous drink. But the Inspector was not himself, and Phryne waited patiently for him to say why.

“There's been an offer,” he finally admitted, after a few awkward minutes of not saying anything much. “To me, that is. I've been asked to take a position. It's a promotion, of sorts, but I'd still be largely working cases.”

Jack was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his large hands slowly spinning the crystal tumbler on the coffee table. 

“But that's wonderful, Jack!” A smile bloomed over her face. So that's what he'd been hiding, the modest man. “Superintendent? Chief Inspector?”

Jack cleared his throat over a lump that had formed. “Erm, yes, I believe Chief Inspector.”

Phryne beamed. “Jack, I'm delighted for you! Well, we need something more than _this_ ,” she held up her half empty glass, “to mark the occasion!”

Phryne rose and moved fluidly to the parlour doors, opening them and sticking her head into the foyer. 

“Really, Miss Fisher, it's not neccess-”

“Nonsense, Jack,” Phryne called over her shoulder, “this is absolutely worth celebrating! Mr Butler! Some Champagne, if you please!”

Jack heard the older man's assent from the kitchen. He released his untouched whiskey and leaned back on the chaise, scrubbing both hands over his face.

Phryne twirled around, her face glowing. “The real question is, of course, will you still be at City South, and will you still have your office!” She flopped elegantly down beside him on the chaise, tucking her knees up between them so they were almost touching his thigh.

He wished he didn't notice.

“Jack?” she reached forward to collect her drink from the other side of the table, and eyed him curiously. “I mean, I'm sure there is, somewhere in the jurisdiction of the Victorian Police, a grander office, but I'll admit, I'm rather fond of that one...” Her eyes twinkled at him and he felt the knot he'd been forcing to stay contained in his gut since he'd spoken with the Commissioner tighten yet somehow get bigger.

“It isn't.”

“Oh well,” said Phryne with a shrug, sensing she was missing something. “I supposed I'll just have to anoint a new desk somewhere else in our fine city. I'm nothing if not adaptable,” she said with a wink.

“No,” Jack licked suddenly dry lips and wished the whiskey in front of him were water. “It's not... It's not here.”

“Not City South?” Phryne's voice remained light, but the subtle darkening of her eyes made Jack need to look away.

He shook his head once, staring at his glass, before knocking back its contents in one go.

“It's in Sydney.”

A shadow fell over her face like a dropped curtain. 

“Sydney.”

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

“Is it... temporary?” Her voice had lost the lovely, buoyant tone that he loved to hear in it, the timbre that told him she was delighted; that she was in his presence and she was delighted. It was a sound he heard in his dreams.

“I don't believe so.” 

“Oh.” Panic began to curl over her skin like smoke. “When?”

His voice was rough. “Two days. The train leaves Thursday morning.”

 _That's not possible,_ she thought. _Not right, not allowed. This cannot be._

The void left by not-her-voice threatened to swallow him, and he rushed to fill it.

“Apparently the racket Sanderson and Fletcher were involved in has long arms, and some of the top brass in Sydney have been implicated in a related scheme. They need someone... they want someone they know....” Jack fumbled for the words.

“They want someone they can trust,” Phryne said, so quietly he could barely hear. 

A polite knock on the open parlour door startled them both. Panic and anger crashed into each other in her chest like a storm, and Phryne fought the impulse to scream, though she wasn't sure she was in control anymore.

Mr. Butler entered the room, silver ice bucket in one hand; bottle and two glasses balanced in the other. Phryne watched him as though she were watching a silent film. It suddenly occurred to her that Champagne was an absurd notion, bordering on the grotesque. But as she struggled to recover herself, a cold thought struck her – maybe this was what Jack wanted. Maybe this was supposed to be a celebration, and she was threatening to ruin it.

With an effort that exhausted her, she spread her lips in a broad smile, and met Mr. Butler's gaze. 

“Thank you, Mr. Butler. You'll need a glass too; I have a toast to make.” 

“Wonderful, Miss,” said the man, though his eyes suggested he knew better.

Jack sank lower into his seat, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “Phryne... Please, you don't...” he muttered. The whiskey he'd drunk roiled in his gut, saturating the knot of coiled rope he imagined there.

“Of course I do, Jack! Mr. Butler, will you pour?” Phryne clasped her hands tightly in her lap to hide their trembling.

The butler calmly retrieved a third coupe from the bar cart and poured the champagne. Phryne handed Jack a glass, her eyes darting everywhere but his. Finally, she stood and raised her glass. 

“A toast,” she said, the words directed at her drink. “To our intrepid Inspector, for a well-deserved promotion, and what promises to be an exciting new adventure. Sydney is getting the best. To Jack.”

Mr. Butler's murmur of approval wasn't enough to cover the catch in Phryne's voice on the last word. 

Jack mouthed his thanks before sipping a drink he couldn't taste. The pounding in his head was worse, and the glass felt like nothing in his hand. He suddenly needed to go. 

He swallowed the wine, blinking at the sharp sting of the bubbles in his throat. Standing too quickly, he bumped the low table and set the half-full bottle rocking. Mr. Butler reached out to steady it, a soft furrow in his brow.

“Can I get you anything Inspector?”

“No, no, Mr. Butler, thank you. I'm afraid I have to go; it's...” He tried to look at Phryne but managed only to see fractured aspects of her face – the high cheekbones too pale, the mouth too set, the arches of her brows too high. “It's late. Thank you again, Miss Fisher. I'm... humbled.”

Jack didn't wait for the butler, grabbing his hat and coat from their familiar hooks on the stand in the hall and leaving with them clenched in his fists.

The knot in his chest seemed to be choking his lungs, and he leaned against the side of the house for what felt like minutes, his breath coming in short gasps. 

What had he expected? That she'd jump to sway his mind? That she'd laugh, or clap, or weep? That she'd blithely smile and send him off with vague promises to write? That she'd wrap her arms around him and beg him to stay? He hadn't been able to picture any of them, and yet each of those Phrynes hung around his head like ghosts.

He had met with the new Commissioner at Russell Street in the late morning, intending to catch a tram afterwards, back to City South and the mountain of paperwork on his desk. But after their conversation, one that began with praise and ended with an offer he clearly wasn't supposed to refuse, the afternoon had disappeared in a blur. He'd ignored every tram stop, and only the familiar action of putting one worn shoe in front of the other had kept him from becoming calcified, unable to move forward or back. He'd walked the breadth of the city, ending up on her doorstep, unable to remember deciding to come.

He had devoted his adult life to the force, and he was needed. To stay might mean sabotaging his career, and for what? Three nightcaps a week? Or was it the feeling of being the best version of himself – sharp, invincible, powerful, tender, electric – whenever she touched him? How could he give her everything when he knew it would only hurt her? Sometimes, he was sure she _had_ changed; sure that the ripple of attraction that was there had grown into something more for her, not just him. Once standing in her parlour, he'd made himself known, and he lived with that, surprisingly simply. He loved her, and she knew. He would not ask for more, for doing so would have him become the very person she needed him not to be.

She owed him nothing, and he owed her everything, and so he would bear his burden on his own.

He stumbled to the street, and walked on tired legs until he saw a cab. 

*****

Phryne stood staring at the door, a voice inside screaming to go after him. _No!_ she wanted to shout back. _He was the one who fled. He is the one who is leaving._

“Miss Fisher?” Mr. Butler's words pulled her back to her body, and she realized she was on the verge of tears.

She turned, closing her mouth from where it had been gaping open, and shaking her head to silence the noise. Mr. Butler gently relieved her of her champagne glass and pressed a generous tumbler of whiskey into her hands.

Silently, he began clearing the evidence of the failed celebration; Phryne moved to stand by the fire so she didn't have to watch. The sweet perfume of the roses seemed cloying and cruel.

“I believe Miss Williams is still at the pictures, Miss. Would you like me to draw you a bath?” Mr. Butler’s voice was as warm as a familiar blanket, and Phryne suddenly couldn't bear the softness. 

“No,” she answered, her own voice sharper than she meant. “I'm sorry, Mr. Butler. I meant, I'll draw my own bath. Thank you Mr. B. That will be all.”

She thought she detected a pause before his quiet, “Goodnight, Miss.”

***** 

Jack woke with a splitting headache and, for a single minute he would remember as blissful, no memory of the events of the previous day. But all it took was a shift of his arm from the awkward position in which he'd fallen asleep, deep in his cups and equally deep in his armchair, for the images to come flooding back. 

He made it to his bathroom before emptying the sparse contents of his stomach into the toilet, then sinking to the tile floor. 

She had looked so beautiful, standing in her doorway, joy illuminating her face. She had evidently not been expecting company, her simple silk camisole and lacy shrug ornamented with an understated diamond brooch. (There were aqua blue stones in it as well, he remembered, because he had noticed immediately how they picked up the blue-green of her eyes. The thought had bitten him through his fog and he'd hated that even now, when he was gathering to say goodbye, his mind betrayed him by falling harder for her.)

It was all about her eyes; always had been. For all that he loved her wit, and her cleverness, and her wisdom, and the way her beautiful mouth conveyed all of those things, it was her eyes that both haunted and caressed him, be he inches away or lost in a dream. They had bewitched him so early, and so often; every time he looked into them he found more of himself, and learned more of the secret of her. 

Tears pricked his own eyes and he swore, angrily wiping them away before they could flow. She wouldn't be caught, and he'd never cage her. Had he really expected this dance to go on forever? Eventually, the music stops, the band goes home; the dance comes to an end.

He rose, unsteady, and cleaned his teeth without looking in the mirror. He had to pack.

***** 

“Just the usual suspects, Dot!” Phryne's voice carried from the dining room into the kitchen where Dorothy sat mending the Irish linen tablecloth. The younger woman exchanged a concerned look with Mr. Butler, who was mixing the batter for a cake.

It had been Mr. Butler, wrapped in his plaid housecoat in the small hours of the morning, who had told her the Inspector's news. They had huddled at the kitchen table, moving from tea, to cocoa, to a rare nip of port, before the man she'd come to think of as both a friend and father had finally suggested they both try to get some sleep. But Dorothy had known sleep would be impossible. So as she'd watched the candle burn down on her bedside table, her tired eyes blurring over her needlework, she'd hoped God would find a way to help two of the dearest people to her. 

Her mistress had been up uncharacteristically early, already halfway through plans for a send-off party for the Inspector. All morning, Dot had trailed after her, making notes on the menu, the guest list, the flowers, the wine. There hadn't been a moment to pause, to gently ask Miss Phryne how she felt, how she was, with the news; Dot knew that was no accident.

“Yes, Miss,” she said, snipping the last thread on her mending and beginning to stow her sewing notions. She glanced again at Mr. Butler, and took courage from his discrete shrug and nod. “But I'd be happy to come with you this morning, if you'd like the company...”

Phryne had made a last-minute appointment with the Fleurie sisters for a gown to wear to the party. Perhaps, though Dot, while they were driving, or at the salon, or if they stopped for tea, she'd be able to get her friend to confide in her. 

It made Dot's own stomach ache with grief to think of the Inspector moving away. Heaven knew, she understood her mistress was not a conventional woman, and the Inspector was a traditional man. But Dorothy Williams was nobody's fool, and though she may not be the most worldly of women, she knew what was right in front of her. But she had seen too much to know that not everything worked out the way you thought it should, and she found herself already grieving for something her mistress might never know she'd lost. 

“No need, Dot,” said Phryne. “I'm happy to go alone; you stay here and help Mr. Butler. Let's ask everyone for 8 o'clock. Actually, Dot, perhaps you could make sure Hugh and the Inspector are both able to make it on time? I'm sure Hugh would love a lunch delivery...”

“Of course, Miss... But wouldn't you like to come along, perhaps before seeing the Mmes. Fleurie? You could bring the Inspector a basket one last -” She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. Miss Fisher had stopped dead in her tracks, one hand on the banister, one foot on the first stair. Her head was bowed, and Dot wished she could pull her words out of the air between them. 

“I'm so sorry, Miss Phryne,” she said softly. “I can't imagine how hard this is for you. If my Hugh were transferred -”

Phryne's head snapped up. “It's nothing the same, Dot. You and Hugh are engaged! Jack and I are... We're only occasional colleagues.” She ran a hand over her hair, still not facing Dot. “Please see that they get the invitations.”

Dorothy watched Phryne's retreating figure mount the stairs. “Yes, Miss.”

*****

He couldn't go. There was no question. How, especially after his deplorable behaviour last night, could he stand in her home amongst their friends, and know that every laugh, every drink, every glance would be the last? Worse, how could he meet her eyes, bear her hand on his arm, inhale the scent of her, without collapsing to the floor? 

He'd made enough of a fool of himself; he wouldn't impose that on her again. He'd send his regrets, and – ... 

But he couldn't do that either. Jack slammed his hand on the flat of his desk and clenched his teeth at the slap of pain. _No more than he deserved._ He couldn't disappear without so much as a goodbye, without seeing Hugh and Miss Williams, and Mr. Butler and Doctor Macmillan, even Prudence Stanley. Somehow they had become more family to him than his own, and he owed them this. 

He stared at the two boxes on he floor beside his desk: one of personal effects, one of files he'd need to take with him. The second was full; the first held only four trophies, a tin containing three stale biscuits, a pen of which he was unreasonably fond, and a small polished wooden box. A plate of cold ham and potato salad sat untouched beside him.

He withdrew the box, setting it on the worn surface of his desk. He ran a hand over it, one finger tracing the fine inlay of mother-of-pearl in the mahogany. It had been his father's, once; he recalled a child's much smaller finger tracing the same whorls and curves, sitting on his father's knee as he'd tried to work. 

“Sir?” Hugh Collins' head appeared in his open doorway. “Miss Williams is leaving, and wanted to make sure we knew what time to be at Miss Fisher's tonight. 8 o'clock?”

Jack licked his lips, his eyes still on the box. He placed it back inside the cardboard, and nodded. 

“Tell her we'll be there.”

*****

For Phryne, the party passed in a blur. Everyone looked lovely, Mr. Butler had outdone himself on hors d'oeuvres-sized versions of all Jack's favourites, and the champagne flowed freely. But everything felt false, and Phryne felt like her own skin was three sizes too small. She couldn't sit down, couldn't stand still, and couldn't, for any length of time, be close to Jack Robinson. The longer the party went on, the more disquiet she became.

“Phryne Fisher,” hissed Mac at one point, when Jack had been lingering alone by the mantel. “What is wrong with you? No, on second thought, don't answer. Whatever you say won't be the truth anyway, so might as well not bother.”

Phryne stared daggers at her friend. “I beg your pardon?”

The doctor kept her voice low, and dragged Phryne to the threshold of the foyer. “You have spent this whole evening – an evening that is ostensibly for said Detective Inspector – aggressively avoiding him!”

Phryne stiffened. “Elizabeth Macmillan, you know full well I've been playing hostess! And what truth are you so sure I'm hiding? That I would rather he not be flitting off to New South Wales? Fine! We work very well together; I've made no secret of that. I do not relish the thought of having to first find, and then _train_ , another member of the Victorian Constabulary to assist me on cases!”

She didn't miss her friend's sardonic smirk at her choice of words. 

Phryne spied a full glass of champagne on a nearby side table and gulped it back. “But Jack is a free man, and if this is what he wants, then _bon voyage._ ” 

“Really.”

“Yes, _really_. You know I am the first one to encourage people to live their own lives. I hope he's very happy.”

“Phryne, I do not for one moment believe you are as blasé about this as you profess. I appreciate that you are probably the last person to realize this, but Jack Robinson is _in love with you_. Probably terminally. But in all other ways, he is a very smart and very practical man. And if you think he's going to go off to Sydney and continue to be who he has been to you, you're more deluded that I thought.”

Phryne looked as though she'd just been slapped and wanted to slap Mac right back. Unable to speak, she whirled around towards the stairs, intending to make a dramatic exit.

“He won't, you know.” Mac's voice, suddenly soft, stopped her. “He won't wait, Phryne. It's one thing when you're here and he's here, and he can't untangle himself. But when he's far away, those threads will slip and one day you'll be free of him, and he'll be free of you, and no matter how much he loves you, he'll move on.”

Phryne steadied herself on the door frame, her back to her friend. “I wish him all the best.”

*****

In the end, no one would remember seeing Miss Fisher and the Inspector closer than half-a-room apart all evening. Farewells were said amongst the rest, and the Inspector was gracious in his thanks, though his lack of excitement fooled no one, with the possible exception of Hugh. 

Jack was the first to leave, claiming a mountain of packing before his departure the next morning. Phryne accompanied him and Mr. Butler to the foyer, secretly wishing more of the party had followed them into the hall. 

She didn't hear Mr. Butler's quiet goodbye, nor Jack's rumbled response; even the phonograph seemed to have gone quiet. Mr. Butler handed Jack his coat and hat, and with a quick glance at his mistress, disappeared into the kitchen.

Jack stood, his back to the door, his eyes so wounded she couldn't hold his gaze. The air between herself and Jack seemed unnaturally charged, like a living being holding them in a graceless posture.

“What time is your train?” she said, mostly addressing his tie.

“Ah, I have a cab coming at 7 to take me to the station.” He smiled a little sadly. “Peeled the letters off my door today; my office is officially no longer mine.”

She met his eyes, feeling like a newly caged bird. “I'm sorry Jack,” she blurted out.

She hadn't meant to say it, and he could see it all over her face.

“I mean, not about the promotion! Not that, I mean...”

“No,” he said quietly.

“About... well...” she stuttered, both hands feeling behind her for the newel post. “I know you liked that office.”

Jack felt his chest constrict. He imagined, for one, brilliant second, reaching out and pulling her to him, kissing her as deeply as he wanted to, and feeling the ache that had been plaguing him disappear.

“I did. Occasionally, it had a great deal to recommend it.” His mouth curled into a tiny, familiar smirk, and she felt her throat tighten uncomfortably. “Particularly the desk.” 

They stood, still as statues, until a peal of laughter from the parlour broke the silence. 

“I'll miss it,” said Jack, his voice low. “Terribly, I imagine.”

Phryne could only nod.

With his hat in his hand, Jack turned and opened the door to the cool evening air. Phryne was frozen, like a bird in a trap, unable to flee and unable to cry out.

The suddenly, he was in front of her, a hand pulling her into him and cradling her head in his palm. His kiss was soft and sad, and she thought she felt the moment her heart cracked open. And before she could respond, it was over, his forehead resting against hers for a moment before he whispered into her hair.

“ _Goodbye, Phryne._ ” 

*****

Phryne sat curled in the window seat, watching the rain create waterfalls over the curb in the thin glow of the streetlamps, the sky far too dark for six in the morning. Only two cars had passed the house in the last few hours; short of having an ark, she couldn't imagine many on the road today. A crack of thunder split the air overhead, and she jumped in spite of her fatigue.

She pulled the edges of the cashmere throw she'd wrapped around her shoulders tighter together over her chest, and looked over at her long-empty tea cup. She probably should get dressed at this point, or at least refresh her tea, but her limbs felt too heavy to move. 

A sound at the door made her turn. 

“I thought you might appreciate some coffee, Miss.” Mr. Butler stood in the entrance with a small silver tray.

“Mr. B., you are divine. I thought I'd been hallucinating the smell of freshly roasted coffee.”

The older man set the tray down on a small table beside her.

“It's dreadful out there,” she said, pressing the side of her forehead against the glass once more.

“Not fit for man or beast.” Mr. Butler poured from a tall carafe and added cream and sugar to the mug. 

“Some will have to brave it, though, won't they.”

“They will,” he nodded. “It is very sudden, isn't it.”

Phryne turned to look at him. She didn't mistake his meaning.

“Yes. It is.”

“It's not my place, Miss, but if I had to say, the Inspector didn't seem entirely happy to be taking the job in Sydney.”

Phryne accepted the mug, wrapping both hands around it and staring at the surface.

“I wouldn't know.”

“Wouldn't you, Miss?”

“Mr. Butler, if you are implying I was less than supportive of Jack's decision, I must beg to differ. I was nothing but. I can't think of how I could have been more clear in my endorsement of his choice.”

Mr. Butler stared out the window over her head for long moments.

“Perhaps what the Inspector wanted, if you'll pardon my candour, Miss Fisher, was the truth. He appeared to me to be no so much hoping for permission to leave, but a reason to stay.”

Phryne hardened her gaze and turned back to the window. “I do not beg, Mr. Butler, not Jack or anyone. And I will not make promises I cannot keep. Jack's life is entirely his own, as mine is entirely my own, and I live it according to no one's rules but mine. ”

“Forgive me Miss Fisher; I may have spoken too candidly.” He smiled apologetically. “I wonder though, if sometimes the biggest joys in life – and the deepest truths – are, as the Bard would say, _more honour'd in the breach_ than by following the rules; even one's own.”

He nodded once and retreated, leaving Phryne frozen in her seat, the coffee steaming and forgotten in her hands.

An image of Jack flashed into her mind. 36 hours ago he'd appeared at her door, his face lined with concern. She closed her eyes, and willed herself to recall that night. She had felt nearly sick from the shock, the familiar feeling of _rightness_ whenever Jack appeared having turned so quickly to distress. And Phryne didn't do anguish; not again, not if she could beat it back. But sitting alone now, she tried to submit to the memory of his words, and instead of her own torment, to look at him.

It was then she realized he hadn't looked like a man excited about a brilliant opportunity; he'd looked like a man.... condemned. It was so plain, so clear, she was awed that she hadn't been blindsided by it then. Her mind was spinning. But why... _He had accepted_. He was leaving; wasn't that what he wanted?

Was it what _she_ wanted? Mac's words came rushing back to her.

... _if you think he's going to go off to Sydney and continue to be who he has been to you_.... 

... _no matter how much he loves you, he'll move on._

Tears suddenly started pouring down her cheeks. How could everything she knew be turned upside down in one day? She tried to calm her breath, setting the coffee cup down with shaking hands. But she was Phryne Fisher... Hadn't being absolutely in control of her own life always meant taking chances? Doing the thing that was least expected? Dancing to her own tune? Why was it inconceivable that that dance might perhaps involve someone else?

Hadn't it for some time?

A hand reached up to feel for the clasp she'd pinned to the shawl to keep it on her shoulders. As she traced her finger over a delicate blue enamel wing, she sat up. 

Flying from the parlour, she shouted to Mr. Butler, who was rolling bread dough in the kitchen.

“Ready the car, please, Mr. B! And an umbrella, if you please!”

Phryne was halfway up the stairs when Mr. Butler looked up from his work, a hopeful smile on his lips.

*****

Jack stood in his spare hallway, the downpour outside only marginally less inviting than the landscape of crates and boxes around him. 

He'd managed to pack the essentials – some clothes and files, but mostly books – into two cases. He would arrange to have a moving company do the rest. The contract in Sydney had a 6 week intensive, during which he'd be posing as a new transfer, but in truth be investigating the corruption in the department. After the case was closed, he was invited to stay on with a huge station under his command, a considerable raise, and the opportunity to continue working in the field.

In truth, the thought of all of it left him numb. He'd managed to avoid drinking himself into a stupor after the party, largely because he'd realized once he got home that he'd exhausted his supplies the night before. So he'd fuelled himself with pot after pot of tea, and spent the night alternately packing boxes and staring out at the storm, wondering if he'd ever get used to the feeling of rupture he couldn't currently shake.

He guessed it had had to happen, at some point. She would leave, or tire of their work, and this state of barrenness was one that would have been waiting for him either way. But to know that he'd been the party to accelerate it was a thing he didn't know how to bear. Maybe one day he would be able to look back and be grateful for what they had shared without feeling like his heart was being cut from his body. Maybe.

Thunder rolled over the street, and Jack heard the distant siren of a police car. Not his men, not anymore. He squared his shoulders from where they'd been slumped for what felt like days, and checked his watch. Ten minutes to seven. He donned his coat and hat and sat on the edge of the couch to wait, when he noticed the flaps of the nearest box were still open. 

Leaning over to close them, he realized it was his personal box from the station. He reached in and withdrew the wooden box, his jaw clenching already. 

The tiny, familiar _pluck_ of the clasp was both comforting and mournful. He opened it, but knew the contents by heart: two ticket tubs to Luna Park; one to an operetta he never saw the end of. A cork from a bottle of red wine lay on a scrap of paper with the handwritten lines to a jingle for washing powder. There was an ivory invitation to a fashion show, a single petal from a silk poinsettia hair piece, and an obituary for a gentle man with the mind of a child. Missing, though not missed, was an old tin badge, its circle and star as familiar to his fingers as the inlay on this box. 

Slips of memories, pieces of time. Maybe he should leave it behind, but he didn't think he could. He tucked the box back in amongst his books in one of his cases and sealed the cardboard flaps of the box. 

It was time to go. 

The rain was relentless, running in rivers through the gutters. Jack saw the lights of the cab and collected his bags, straining under their weight. After locking the door, he hurried down his walk to the street. He motioned to the driver to stay put, that he would stow his own bags in the boot; no need for both of them to get soaked. As he rounded the back of the cab, squinting into the storm, he saw familiar headlights approaching through the rain.

Her name was on his lips before he could stop it.

_Phryne._

She pulled up behind the cab, sending a spray of water onto the garden next to his. Jack closed the boot and turned, the thought flashing into his mind that he ought to steel himself for her goodbye, but the overwhelming feeling of joy at seeing her drowning it out. He tugged down the brim of his hat and started towards her.

She emerged from the Hispano and he couldn't help a smirk as he watched the elegant Phryne Fisher become soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. She froze for a moment, her shoulders pulled up to her ears and her hands wide, before shaking her head back and forth like a puppy and grinning through the rain. 

“It's a dreadful day for a trip, Jack,” she called over the noise. Her boots and coat were already dark with water as she walked towards him.

They met in the middle, ankles deep in a flood. 

“Perhaps, but my ticket is purchased.” Jack wished he could dampen the feeling of elation he felt; it was only going to make it harder. But something was different. He studied her face and couldn't see any trace of the mask she'd been wearing since he'd told her of the offer. Instead, he saw the gleam of confidence and energy that always took his breath away.

“I could have driven you,” she said, looking past him at the cab.

His face fell slightly. 

“Not to the station, Jack. To Sydney.” Phryne's eyes sparkled.

“What did you say?”

“I could have driven you, to Sydney. At least this time. I can't promise I'll be up for driving all the time, sometimes I might take the train, just for a change of pace.”

“Miss Fisher, I -”

“How long, Jack?”

“I beg your pardon?” Once again, Jack felt like he was two steps behind her and he struggled to catch up.

“How _long_ , Inspector? How long do you _need_ to be in Sydney?”

“I – It's complicated.” Jack shrugged helplessly.

“No, it isn't,” Phryne said, stepping closer to him. “I know they want you forever, but how long to they need you?”

He stared at her, his mind feeling sluggish, but a glimmer of hope beckoning from a great distance.

“I don't know... I – Six weeks, I suppose... but -”

Phryne flew forward, raising one wet glove to his cheek and wrapping the other arm around his shoulders. She pressed her mouth to his, unable to hold back a tiny moan as he met her completely. Rather than pulling away, he pulled her closer to him and deepened the kiss, the knot in his gut instantly obliterated into a million weightless threads. 

Sinking back to her feet, she looked up at him with delighted eyes. He shook his head.

“All this time, and all I had to do was to threaten to leave?” The curl on his lips made her toes tingle nearly as much as the kiss. 

“Don't tell anyone, Inspector, but I can be a little slow,” she grinned.

“Never.”

Her laugh was as light as air. 

“Do you want to leave, Jack?”

He stared at her, and suddenly realized that everything had changed.

“No.”

“Good. Because apparently I don't want to let you, and although it took some fairly blunt hints, I had almost forgotten that I am a woman who wants what she wants and usually gets it, regardless of the rules. And Jack Robinson, I want you.”

Now Jack laughed, and it was a sound she realized she would never tire of hearing. He grasped her around the waist, hoisting her above him and twirling in circles until they were both dizzy.

The sound of the cab's horn behind them brought them back down.

“Come after me,” he said.

“To Sydney?”

“Everywhere,” he said, eyes bright. “But first Sydney.”

The smile that blossomed over her face would live just behind his eyelids until he saw her on the platform of Sydney's Central Station two weeks hence, a vision in red stepping off the express train from Melbourne. 

“Six weeks?” she said.

He nodded. “Seems I have some back-pedalling to do, but yes. Six weeks.”

“Good. Because there's a whole world out there, Jack. Sydney's only the beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Butler's quote is from Hamlet, and refers to the idea that sometimes, nobility and virtue are to be found outside the rules.


End file.
